


Those Melancholy Gardens

by midautumnnightdream



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Families of Choice, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Herbalism, I couldn't post the other ones and not this, Originally Posted on Tumblr, This is very old, book nerding, but also very dear to my heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 19:06:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15492654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midautumnnightdream/pseuds/midautumnnightdream
Summary: Father Mabeuf isn't sure he believes in goblins; the sweet sparkle of fresh water seeping into dry flowerbeds is the ultimate kind of reality.Éponine will do a lot for someone who speaks familiarly to her.(In the vast cosmic exchange of stars and states and great men, nothing is fixed. In the microcosm of a small garden, perhaps something is.)





	1. Chapter 1

"I am the devil, but it's all the same to me."

"Wait!"

The word escaped from Father Mabeuf's tongue before he had time to give it proper consideration: rarely is it advisable to shout orders at apparitions, particularly one who has just committed itself to the underworld; but something of this unhappy assessment, or perhaps the tone of its delivery stuck to old Mabeuf's gentle soul, and he found himself unwilling to banish his odd visitor back to the twilight she had materialised from.

The apparition (goblin? girl?) remained still as if spellbound, her dark eyes measuring Father Mabeuf with the kind of hesitancy that owed nothing to the supernatural.

"Would you like to come in for a moment?" Mabeuf continued, not asking himself why. "I have..." He faltered for a moment. Poor and unhappy man! What did he have that was worth offering even to a mundane visitor, let alone one who seemed only tenuously bound to this world?

"I have books," he concluded eventually, in the same tone another man might say "I have arms and legs". "Engravings too. There might still be some candles left." His words faltered as insecurity set in. No one had cared for his books and engravings for a very long time, why should this be different? Furthermore, there was something to be said against calling demons into your own home, even young and unhappy-looking ones, who were kind to old men and thirsting flowers.

But no. Father Mabeuf gathered his wits. "It's cold and dark," he coaxed. "Whatever you are looking for, you won't find it tonight."

The apparition didn't seem to have noticed his moment of doubt. Some part of her had lit up at this awkward invitation, something hopeful and terrified and bravely determined to be neither.

"Books, you say?" The words were aimed to be casual. but the hoarse voice carried a note of barely suppressed hunger that might have frightened old Mabeuf, had the subject been a different one.

He smiled, a grey fleeting thing on his weathered cheeks, but a smile nonetheless. "Come in."

\---

Mother Plutarque appraised the situation with a quick efficiency essential to anyone who would spend thirty years catering to the earthly needs of a man as absent-minded as Monsieur Mabeuf. That their young guest was cold and hungry was clearer than soap water, as was the fact that their pantry was as empty as it had been this morning. However, it was equally obvious that said guest was currently more concerned for the needs of the mind, and if M Mabeuf was determined to burn all their candles, then it would be a shame to let the heat go to waste. So Mother Plutarque turned to the last resort of a depleted hostess - fixing a cup of nettle tea.

"This is a whole lot of books," the girl noted with a hint of awe in her hoarse voice. Mother Plutarque winced in sympathy and supplemented the mixture with a pinch of her precious mint leaves, wistfully dreaming of the time when they could afford honey.

M Mabeuf beamed like a proud parent, no less overjoyed by a compliment from a gamine than from one of his most learned acquaintances. "I have spent a lifetime gathering up this collection. What do you enjoy reading about?" he asked with the earnest curiousity of a man who wouldn't even think of doubting his guest's self-proclaimed literacy, or her good taste.

To the girl's credit, she hesitated only for a moment. "Oh... have you got anything about Napoleon? We are Bonapartists at home, you see and Monsieur Marius..." she broke off, the sound of this name on her own lips seeming to startle her out of her candidness.

It was peculiar, Mother Plutarque reflected as she set a steaming cup in front of their guest, who rewarded her with a surprised smile before returning her attention to M Mabeuf, sorting through his books and chattering away with more enthusiasm than he had expressed in weeks, how adversity forced one to find usefulness and pleasure from the places where there should have been none to be had. M Mabeuf's late brother the curé might have called it providence. Mother Plutarque, a more practical soul used to the existence on the edge of deprivation, preferred to think of this as the making of a life.


	2. Chapter 2

The third time Éponine paid a visit to Mabeuf household, she was accompanied by a scruffy-looking young boy, who wore his impish smile and broken boots with the particular brand of worldly assurance that is developed alongside a fine knowledge of when and how to dodge.

"My brother Gavroche," Éponine explained to Father Mabeuf, who had been dozing in the garden. She shrugged in a half-fond, half-resigned manner shared by older siblings everywhere. "He got mighty curious over what could possibly keep me a whole afternoon."

"We are going to theatre later," Gavroche explained as he took in his surroundings with unabashed curiousity, his gaze lingering on the gnarled apple tree. "If I let her slip away now, she willforget herself in those dusty old books and miss the real history happening on Rue de Richelieu."

"Heckling and calling," his sister scoffed. "Some history!"

"The last throes of the old fossils in the Academy before they crumble to dust," Gavroche retorted, his nose high in the air. "If you came with me more often, I wouldn't have to explain. I say," he turned to Father Mabeuf, who was following the banter with a bemused smile. "Do you have any _good_ books to fill my sister's brains with more than cobwebs?"

"That's rude!" Éponine exclaimed, making a valiant but ultimately unsuccessful attempt at pinching her brother's ear, before turning to Father Mabeuf with an apologetic smile. "We brought a pie," she added, feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious. "It is a bit charred, but still good in the middle." She had Gavroche to thank for this piece of extravagance. Her clever little brother had been making himself useful to a baker's widow, who run a small shop near Place de la Bastille, and his consistent diligence had been rewarded in form of a whole red currant pie from a failed patch in exchange of a few errands.

Mabeuf's crinkled eyes lit up. "Mother Plutarque will be most pleased," he noted. "As for you, young man," he turned to Gavroche, "I must apologize, I am not entirely sure what you are looking for, but I do have manuscripts of several famous dramas. Do you want to take a look? I have got several of Racine's best works, perhaps something of Moliere..."

Gavroche very valiantly did not wince. "Sounds delightful," he lied cheerfully, well aware of his sister's sharp fingers still in the dangerous vicinity of his left ear. As little as he cared to struggle his way through texts he would have much rather mocked from the Gods, he couldn't find it in himself to reject outright an offer genuinely made, not when the offerer laboured under an impression he was sharing something rare and precious. Old men must be given some leeway when it comes to matters of taste.

He just hoped his sister appreciated the enormity of sacrifices being made for her behalf.


	3. Chapter 3

"I have witnessed a most peculiar incident," Gavroche announced in lieu of a greeting, taking the great consideration of dusting his dilapidated boots before slamming the door shut. Salomon, Mother Plutarque's rheumatic old mouser gave a displeased sneeze. "Right outside here no less."

"Gavroche," Éponine frowned, glancing up from where she had been sorting through one of the splintering storage boxes Mother Plutarque kept under the kitchen table. That worthy had declared time ripe for a spring clearing; a decision in which Éponine understood a thin hope of finding some forgotten treasure to satisfy the landlord, or at least to make up for the denials of the green-grocer, of the butcher, of the baker. Thus far, their only notable discovery had been a collection of dubiously spelled suggestions on herbal remedies, which Mother Plutarque had dismissed as 'common everyday knowledge, only worth keeping for nostalgia' and which Father Mabeuf had declared 'priceless insight into an overlooked well of knowledge'.

Gavroche, however, was no more perturbed by his sister's admonishments than by Salomon's demonstrative disapproval. "Hear me out! I was inspecting the garden, keeping an eye on the things – you really need a better lock for the fruit-house – when I see somebody coming up from the city side. I hide under the hedge in case some busybody was planning to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong. Instead what I see is an old veteran, dressed plain but all respectable. He walks slowly, gnarled and bent like that apple tree of yours. And after him comes Montparnasse in all his farcical glory, with a rose stuck to his teeth like a complete dolt.”

"Montparnasse?" Father Mabeuf mused, curiousity finally coaxing him away from the herbal he had been eagerly perusing. "We lived on the Rue Montparnasse last year; not a good place for peace and quiet. But the streets don't grow legs to walk around the city."

Éponine found herself growing utterly still. "'Parnasse here?" she repeated, her own voice oddly distant to her ears. Suddenly she felt unsteady, the warm cozy walls around her cold and fragile, as if her precious sanctuary had been invaded by something strange. "What does he want? Did he see you?".

Gavroche shook his head quickly. "No. And that's where is gets curious. You see, 'Parnasse bounces on the old man like a cat on a mouse – and the next thing I know, the cat is flat on his back with the mouse pinning him down, giving him a lecture on galleys and laziness and who knows what else." The boy shook his head, half-admiring, half-incredulous at the old man who clearly had very little understanding of Montparnasse and the world he belonged to. "And then, if you'd believe it, he pulls out his purse, puts it in 'Parnasse's hands and walks away, with 'Parnasse staring after him like a jilted lover.”

Éponine shook her head in disbelief. "That veteran of yours is surely mad."

"Not as mad as Montparnasse," Gavroche continued airily. "He just dropped the wallet like it was full of hot coals and bolted in the opposite direction. Here." He dug under his shirt and pulled out the most convincing evidence of his adventure.

Éponine shot her brother a sharp look. If the whole story treaded the edges of credulity, then the thought Montparnasse willingly parting with money was a long step over the line. But she said nothing, as her hosts stared at the wallet with a different kind of disbelief.

"Are you going to open it or not?" Gavroche prompted.

Father Mabeuf’s hands shook as he fumbled with the clasps. Three pairs of eyes watched in perfect silence as he counted out six golden napoleons.

"Well," Mother Plutarque finally said. "That old man was surely an angel in disguise.”

\---

"Sorry about dropping 'Parnasse on you like this," said Gavroche later, when the siblings were alone in the garden. Éponine unhooked the well chain and lowered the bucket into the water. "Should have known you don't want to hear about him here.”

"It's just talk. Means nothing to me," Éponine muttered, shivering a little, as if this blast from the past had brought an actual chill over their garden. She withdrew the bucket and filled the flowerpot, before giving her brother a knowing look. "'Parnasse just dropped the wallet huh? No don't look at me so innocently, that might work on Mother Plutarque, but I know better."

Gavroche crossed his arms with a huff. "The old man wanted Montparnasse to go honest, that's exactly what he said. We both know 'Parnasse would have shelled out for a pretty coat, or more likely a pretty knife to use on the coat owner.”

"Bah, you don't have to make excuses to me," Éponine scoffed. "Just don't let Father Mabeuf to catch you on the lie. It was hard enough to get him accept the money."

"Stubborn old mule," Gavroche said fondly, plopping down to the ground and threading his fingers through the thick grass. "Don't you worry, I'll keep my trap shut. I know you need the money."

" _You?_ Why do you say 'you' like this?" Éponine demanded, far too anxiously, in her brothers opinion. Gavroche stretched out his hand in a placating gesture.

" _I_ mean nothing by it. But you have been staying here for the last week or two haven't you?" He peered at his sister carefully. Apparently the subject was touchier than he had realised.

Éponine shifted almost guiltily, keeping her eyes on the flowerbed she was tending "You shouldn't say... it's not like that. Mother Plutarque has been ill, there is work in the garden – Father Mabeuf is still hoping to get his indigo" – she gestured at a batch of rather colourless and sickly-looking plants – "and someone needs to see to Salomon. He can barely move about during rainy days."

"Sounds like quite a social contract you have here," Gavroche retorted before he could help himself. "Look I'm not gonna tell you what to do, but if you want to keep away from Montparnasse and his ilk – well, you couldn't have found a better hiding place than this back end of nowhere. As for old Mabeuf, he is a splendid fellow, but he's also the type who wants to take a lost purse to police commissioner and Mother Plutarque, bless her, is not gonna stop him."

Éponine frowned. "You mean I should..."

"I mean nothing," Gavroche shot back, still grappling with the odd position he had found himself in this conversation, searching his memories for a precedent to fall back to and finding none. "All I'm saying is, if there is one thing our old man managed to teach us all, it's how to make a good use of what the fortune throws at us."

"Maybe _you_ should be the one living here, interfering little busybody that you are," Éponine muttered, sounding wary, exhausted and faintly terrified as she always did, when the matter of Mabeuf household came up. As if she expected that the fate would realize it's mistake any moment now and snatch back every ounce of happiness she had managed to garner.

Gavroche could sympathize, but he wasn't going to let his sister talk herself out of a good opportunity because of a what-might-be, nor would he risk jeopardizing something that was so clearly important to her. So he waved her off. "I'm happy enough with my current apartment thank you very much. Besides, much as I like the old man, his taste in drama is abominable and there is only so much praise heaped at Racine's calcified feet that I can take in one day." He was rather proud of 'calcified'. The fellow with big hair and cats had explained him the meaning of it and Gavroche had spent a whole day trying to find an opportunity to try it out.

Unfortunately, his sister was being less than responsive audience. "They have started calling me familiarly, you know," she noted quite abruptly and without further explanation

"Like old friends," agreed Gavroche, who had never had a formal address directed at him in his lifetime, and thus considered himself a friend to everybody.

"I suppose I have to think on it," Éponine sighed, seeming calmer now, yet there was something deeply unhappy in her bearing. "There is nothing permanent about this, you know. They are old people. There is no money. Mother Plutarque is not healthy. Even if she lives to see the next year... Even if I do..." She shut down again. "But no. This is temporary. A brief respite, nothing more."

Gavroche felt his eyebrows shoot up in genuine confusion. "Dearest sister, what _isn't_?" He received no answer.

Soon after that Mother Plutarque returned from her visit to the grocer and disappeared into the kitchen for a while. Father Mabeuf was extracted from his books and all four seated themselves right there in the grass ("like children taking animals to the pastures," Mother Plutarque said with a chuckle), to share a loaf of bread fresher than any of them had tasted in weeks and hot baked potatoes. Father Mabeuf entertained the company by describing a performance of Bretannicus he had seen in his youth, his words vivid enough to have even Gavroche fascinated. Yet through all these gayeties, it seemed to him that his sister never lost her air of melancholy.


End file.
